BMF – BabyTron

A nigga movin’ weight, tryna get the cake
I’m in and out of state (At least you could wish me luck)
Too many niggas fake, it’s hard to tell a snake (Ayo, Mark A)
One more flip and I’m straight (At least you could wish me luck)
I don’t go hand to hand, it go gram after gram (Tal’n bout Mr., whew)
Yeah, holla at me man (At least you could wish me luck)
Too many niggas fake, it’s hard to tell a snake
One more flip and I’m straight (At least you could wish me-)

Out road running, tell my bitch she better wish me luck
Either getting locked or touching back down, giffy’d up
2022, the new me, kit fifty plus
Touch one of mines, we might blow the whole city up
Ninety-day grind, might make a hunnid by the sixth week
Me and bro counting, Southwest T and Big Meech
201s burnt the reader down, every chip heat
I just spent four figures on a pair of ripped jeans
.223’s leave him twitching like a gamerhead
Eight hunnid dollar double cup, killed the pain with meds
Pockets full of blues, bottom of my feet painted red
High as hell eating breakfast, steak came with eggs
You gon’ think dog your mans ’til he face the feds
Tell ’em sit down before I have akhi shave his dreads
Brodie face a red, finna go straight to bed
Up some Presi’s out my pocket, you gon’ make me wake the dead
If the vibes off, I can’t shake his hand
Why you talking money, never woke up and made a band?
Life a gamble, sometimes, you gotta take a chance
European dressed, looking like I came straight from France
Forty some’ thousand in the joggy, had to change my stance
What the fuck going on, you playing BAPE off Vans?
Y’all be weird, that ain’t in me, I don’t hate no man
Walking down an opp, his ass praying that the Draco j-
Shit, left his top oozing like a Faygo can
Eat Chipotle with some cheese on me, I’m the queso man
Fell asleep off a four of Wocky, I don’t take no Xans
Wake up, plans come to me, I don’t make no plans
I’ll snatch you up at the Coney, some’ like Lamar
Grinding since forever, shit, now I’m shining like a star
Fifteen miles in your tank, you not sliding far
This the twelfth street we rode down tryna find his car
Finna do the dash, standing up in the Trackhawk
From a city, if you wear some glasses, they get snatched off
If them bitches ain’t real, get your face blasted off
Scam vet’, was scamming when y’all couldn’t get the bag off (Whew, this nigga got him a lil’ pile-pile)